:bull:The New York Times
December 26, 2011 Monday
Late Edition - Final
Hunting Deer With My Flintlock
By SEAMUS McGRAW.
Seamus McGraw is the author of ''The End of Country.''
Bushkill, Pa.
SHE took me by surprise. Though I had been stalking her through the dense
undergrowth for about 40 minutes, I had lost sight of her as the afternoon light
began to fade. It was getting late and I was about ready to call it a day when,
just as I hit the crest of a shadowy depression in the mountainside, I caught a
glimpse of her, a beautiful doe, the matriarch of a small clan that foraged
behind her.
She saw me, too.
She stepped out from behind a shagbark. Even in the spreading dusk I could see
her eyes as she glared at me. She stomped out a warning on the rocky ground.
I had to admire her guts. I dropped to one knee, fumbled in my pocket for my old
brass powder charger, freshened the powder in my frizzen, and pulled back the
hammer on my .50-caliber flintlock. I took a deep breath and then I drew a bead
on her.
An instant that felt like an hour passed before I squeezed the trigger. The
hammer fell, the powder in the frizzen flashed, startling me even though I was
prepared for it, and a heartbeat later, the whole world exploded with the
thunder of 90 grains of black powder erupting in fire and blinding acrid smoke
from the barrel of my gun, sending a lead minie ball rocketing toward the doe at
a lethal 1,400 feet per second.
In the smoke and the confusion I couldn't tell if I had hit her. And then I saw
that I had. The impact of the bullet had knocked her to the ground, and as the
rest of the herd high-tailed it over the ridge, she struggled to stand,
staggered a few yards and then collapsed again. I had hoped for a clean kill.
But I had failed. I knew what had happened -- I had flinched when the powder in
the pan went off. Instead of hitting her in the heart or lungs, which would have
killed her instantly, I had mortally wounded her. Now I would have to finish the
job.
I hate to kill.
I know that must sound like an odd confession coming from an avid deer hunter, a
guy who, like thousands of others in my home state of Pennsylvania, spends the
better part of the year looking forward to those few short weeks in October and
November, and especially to the special flintlock season that begins the day
after Christmas, when I can load up my rifle and get lost in the mountains
behind my home all alone. But I suspect that if you could wade through their
boot-top-deep braggadocio and really talk to hunters, many of them would tell
you the same thing.
For me, and I suspect for many others like me, the art of hunting is far more
profound than taking trophies. It's about taking responsibility. For my needs.
For my family. For the delicate environmental balance of this wounded but
recovering part of the country. There is something sobering about hunting for
your food. Meat tastes different, more precious, when you've not only watched it
die, but killed it yourself. There is no seasoning in the world that can compare
with moral ambiguity.
Biologists estimate there are now 1.6 million deer in Pennsylvania's woods, far
more than when white men first set foot there. I took up deer hunting a decade
ago when I realized that this staggeringly large population was decimating many
of our forests, forests that after hundreds of years of clear-cutting were at
last poised to recover. With no predators to speak of -- the wolves were wiped
out centuries ago and the last mountain lion in the state was killed more than
70 years ago -- the responsibility for trying to restore a part of that balance
fell to me. And to all the other hunters.
Maybe it's because I grew up in a family that always did things the hard way, or
maybe it's because I'm basically a Luddite, but when I took up hunting, I
eschewed all the technological gadgets designed to give modern hunters an extra
edge over their prey. I like to believe that there's something primitive and
existential about the art of hunting, and that somehow, stripping the act of
hunting to its basics makes it purer.
I wanted a weapon that required more of me, one that demanded all the skill and
all the planning that I could muster, a weapon that gave me just one chance to
get it right. I made the decision to hunt only with the most basic firearm there
is, a muzzle-loading black-powder rifle, fired by a piece of flint striking cold
steel. I often tell my more conservative friends that I carry the gun the Second
Amendment explicitly guarantees me the right to carry.
There are hundreds of us in the state. Some are history buffs, guys who believe
in the sanctity of some imagined past. Some, like me, are purists. In late
December we wander into the woods, usually alone, with our antique weapons and
our obsolete notions of what a hunt should be.
But those antique weapons also carry with them an antique sense of
responsibility. To kill with a flintlock, you must get close. And because these
ancient guns are notoriously balky and inaccurate, there is a very good chance
that you'll miss your target altogether or, worse, that you'll simply wound the
creature and in so doing, inflict greater suffering than is necessary. And so
you take every precaution to make sure that your one shot is clean, that it
kills quickly and mercifully. And still, sometimes you fail, just as I did that
late afternoon in midwinter when I flinched as my gun went off.
I followed the blood trail a few yards and found her. She was still alive. I
could see her breath. It was ragged. She looked at me. I loaded my gun, charged
the frizzen[pan-LEW], and pulled the trigger. There was a flash in the pan -- that is
where the expression comes from -- and then nothing. I tried again. Still
nothing.
The sun was sinking behind the ridge. I didn't have the time or the tools with
me to fix the gun -- I had carelessly left them behind -- and so I laid my rifle
down on the ground, pulled my knife from its sheath, wrapped my arms around the
wounded and frightened doe, and ...
I hate to kill.
But if I'm going to profit by death, and to some degree we all do -- even those
who find the very act of eating flesh to be offensive still benefit from the
restorative act of responsible hunting in the nation's wild places -- then I
believe I also have an obligation to do it in the most honest way possible. It
has to cost me something. And it does. I would not be so presumptuous as to
suggest that the obligation extends beyond me. But speaking only for myself, it
is compelling. It's a debt I owe the place I've chosen to live. And it's why, if
you're looking for me on the day after Christmas, you'll find me in the woods of
Northeastern Pennsylvania with a flintlock rifle in my hand, and a few gnawing
regrets in my heart.
Copyright 2011 The New York Times Company
This is so inaccurate..., I think I smell a fraud, (imo-hbc) [in my opinion-humble but correct] :hmm:
LD
